Update on my old neighborhood.

On a recent trip to the city that I used to live in, I stopped through my old neighborhood where I lived for like 7-8 years, for coffee with a friend, and to try to catch some random people and say hi.

My one friend says that public transpo is as bad if not worse than when I left -- with frequency reductions, there's just packed busses, and no-one wears masks, and so you're around people coughing all the time.

She also said that one time recently she was on the subway and that one guy sat down on one side of her and then another guy on the other, and they reached across her to conduct a drug deal (!!!).

At the one neighborhood hardware store, too, the (white) (townie) (retired cop) owner said it's worse than when I left, with safety on public transportation, and also around the neighborhood.

Like, on the business strip 3 blocks from my last apartment where his shop is, there's now been nighttime break-ins at the places up and down those blocks, though they haven't hit his store yet, probably because he has a serious gate on the front door and then a solid row of bikes across all of the big front plate-glass window.

"They probably don't feel like crawling over all the bikes if they break out the window," he was like.

He was also saying that he and his wife live upstairs up above the store, which I never knew, and that they installed a thick bolt on the door that goes down into the shop, since it's unlikely that anyone would break in and then want to go upstairs, but they wanted it there for peace-of-mind and safety's sake, just in case.

Besides all that, too, he said that electricity really jumped up and hammered him with that bill, and he even called the company to see if he could get a lower rate, but that didn't do any good.

I also stopped by to see some neighbors and my old landlord back on my old block, but no-one was home, and since I didn't have any paper to leave notes, I texted my old landlord to let him know that I'd dropped by and to say hello to people for me -- only to discover that him and his wife and his kids moved out to the suburbs a few months ago, "Kind of the same reasons you moved...", he was like, texting me.

An update on another's career path.

So, the other week I caught up with a guy who I know from grad school, who got into a low-level consultancy gig, for which he had to produce an entire podcast to advance up into a slightly higher-level job.

As it turns out, and as he had occasionally feared, the advent of remote work meant that the company found out that his job was outsource-able, and they shipped all the jobs to Argentina, and without trying to find anyone new jobs in the company.

"That's just corporate life," he was like.

He spent 6.5 years there, and was briefly at another place afterwards, but his skillset was misaligned and he only lasted a half year.

Now, he's starting up a teaching job at a religiously-affiliated high school, and it's at a payscale that's just slightly lower than what I make waiting tables!

His wife is concerned about the income level, but that's his best option since they have to stay in the area they live in. So, he's looking into what he can do for summers and sidejobs, to get more money.

. . .

(. . .)

A tale of a combative evangelical.

My one friend from (Texas) who works in the entertainment industry was telling me the other day about this one combative evangelical he knew from back in the day.

As he told it, the guy would especially seek out Christian Science Reading Rooms, and he would go in and ask to speak with Mary Baker Eddy.

"Hi," he'd be like, "Is Mary Baker Eddy here?".

"No," they'd be like.

"Is Mary Baker Eddy here?", he'd be like, "I'd like to see Mary Baker Eddy."

"No," they'd be like, "Mary Baker Eddy isn't here."

"Are you sure?", he'd be like, "I'd like to see Mary Baker Eddy."

"Sir," they'd be like, "Mary Baker Eddy is dead."

"Damn right she's dead", he'd then be like, "And don't you forget it."

Post-tourism dry British humor.

During my recent tourism jaunt, I was struck by a historical marker telling a story of how Abraham Lincoln would stay at this one small inn while riding his law-circuit, and there was an anecdote that one time he was by the fire as some children played with a pig bladder inflated like a balloon, and he convinced them to put throw it in the fire, and it exploded and rained fire down everywhere, and he took a broom and went to go put out the pieces of flaming pig bladder, but the broom itself caught on fire, and a new one had to be ordered from Springfield, and amidst all of this chaos he realized he was late for some professional appointment and had to leave.

It was quite amusing, so I texted a picture of the plaque that told this story to my one (half British) (half Sudanese) friend (the sister of the sister-brother pair), to which she texted back -

As you do - play with a pigs bladder 

. . . 

Tourism with my parents (3 of 3): Frank Lloyd Wright.

My mother doesn't like Frank Lloyd Wright, and she says that she understands it intellectually, but she doesn't see any warmth in the house of his that we toured.

"And it didn't need a lot, just a touch," she was like.

And, when I said that I was kind of surprised that she hated him, she was like, "I didn't say I hated it, I just didn't like it."

As it turns out, I texted my one (professor) friend who teaches (modern) (Czech) literature, and she was like -

I've got to agree with her safe assessment 

- and -

*Sage

- and -

There's something cold about all his houses. And that's not me against modernism because i love mies

- to which I replied that it was uncanny how they both had the same take on him, and that women must go to the bathroom in twos in order to work out their feelings on Frank Lloyd Wright, to present a united front against his work.

"That's the only reason we even go to the bathroom," she texted back.

Tourism with my parents (2 of 3): Lincoln tomb.

At the Lincoln tomb, my mother wondered aloud what Lincoln would think of that kind of memorialization of himself.

At the Lincoln tomb, my father shook his head about a (late middle age) (white) couple walking up the path to the tomb with a (sleek) (black) (pit bull) on a leash ("How stupid is that, to take a dog there"), as well as how a Dollar General sign was huge and right behind the main sign of the cemetery on your way in.

At the Lincoln tomb, I was struck by this sign about his family members:

Mary Lincoln and three of the four Lincoln sons are entombed in crypts bearing their names, located in the wall behind you. Robert Lincoln, by decision of his wife, is buried at Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia.

To me, Robert's wife sounds a lot like Meghan Markle.

. . .

(My mother agreed with me, as did my one [half British] [half Sudanese] friend [the sister of the brother-sister pair], who I texted to about it.)

Tourism with my parents (1 of 3): Lincoln stuff.

My mother is just deeply impressed by how Lincoln rode the circuit practicing law in such a wide geographic territory, it's so big.

She also finds many souvenirs with his image disrespectful, and she refuses to buy them or even look at them, though she did get a coffee mug with an image of his birthplace for an old coworker of hers at the one public library back in my hometown.